I'm amazed at the ways poets can describe things. And I love finding poets I've never heard of. I had a poem stashed in my email that fits both of these and I rediscovered it today.
Because I cannot remember my first kissby Roger Bonair-Agard
but I remember sitting alone on the brown couch in my grandmother’s living room, couch whose cushion covers were of velvet and the color of dark rust, or dried blood —and sewn by the tailor from up the block, the same one who made me my first light blue suit two years earlier And I sat there running my hands back and forth over the short smooth hairs of the fabric and understanding what touch meant for the first time—not touch, the word, as in don’t touch the hot stove or don’t touch your grandfather’s hats but touch like Tom Jones was singing it right then on the television, with a magic that began in his hips, swiveled the word and pushed it out through his throat into some concert hall somewhere as a two-syllabled sprite, so that women moaned syllables back in return.
I just love the word choice and the way he describes sitting on a couch. What I thing to describe! And I have a thing for poems whose title serves as the first line. Is that weird? Ah, poetry...
Please check out the rest of this gem at Poets.org. And definitely check out the Poetry Friday round-up at Mainely Write.
photo credit: foka kytutr via photopin cc